More Photos '85

The only picture of me playing my drum set.  

Okay, also one of the only times I actually played my drum set.

And yes, I dyed my hair black.

Cosmos in the House (Dedicated to Carl Sagan)

I found a black hole in my

cupboard one day

it opened up wide

and nearly swept me away

I found a super-nova

in my cereal bowl

from then, I don't care so much

for Cheerios

And I found the moon lurking behind

my closet door

But it was waxing on my clothing

and it waned all over my floor

It was the day that the Big Dipper

came right out of my oven

That I knew this cosmic-domestic

combination had to end

I tried the strongest cleansers,

but they didn't seem to stop

the trail of Haley's Comet

from landing in my pop

I must admit it is distracting

as I try to get to sleep

when underneath the sheets,

I find a floating galaxy

Or when I sit down to watch the news

on my old T.V.

And shooting stars come popping out

to block the entire screen

I even called the exterminator

and he was blown away

He barely squeezed in through the door

because of the Milky Way

And even with my laundry I do have

substantial doubt

Because with Saturn's rings-around-your-collar,

you can't just Shout it out

And yet, I may be growing fond

of all these oddities

I guess I really shouldn't complain

if the Universe wants to live with me

I suppose I like the fact 

that I have something that's unique

Because I like to take the nebula

for a walk along the street

And maybe it's not so bad

when I'm sitting down for tea

If the Cosmos comes into the room

and has a drink with me

Yeah, I guess I'll keep these little guys

no matter how much I hate

to see dust clouds in the kitchen sink

or lurking on my plate

- Aug. 5, 1985, A.D.

You Can Take It With You: A New Materialism

The plastic kept me warm that night.

I closed my eyes and heard the towels throwing themselves against the cabinet doors.

They nearly screamed for their freedom.

I swear I never realized they had such strong feelings about their lives.

I took them out to the clothes line the next day.

I dressed myself as a blanket and watched them tug at the clothespins with violent force.

It was as tho they had somewhere else to be. . .

The next day, I changed my fabric softener.

I used herbal detergent, and tried the delicate cycle.

I also offered them jazz.

I read them Thoreau - occasionally T.S. Elliot.

Together, we studied Zen until they were rid entirely of static cling.

The next day, the dishes refused to settle.

They rattled incessantly with the vibrating refrigerator.

They offered me no choice.

I gave the fridge some incense and a good defrosting.

The dishes, I hand dried from then on.

The towels would teach them Zen while I sang to them.

And one day, as tho following a suppressed dream or an ancient instinct, the fork ran away with the spoon.

They left a note:

"There is an answer to the oppression of our lives; but it isn't through complaining or protesting with peers.  It is through positive action and only through positive action that we may rise above the constricting hold of our modern existence.

Signed,

Fork and Spoon"

Today, I shall set out to liberate the furniture.

- Aug. 3, 1985, A.D.

Small Thrills

It's a necklace I love

or a pair of shoes that I can't wait to wear

or earrings that match each other perfectly

or a great smile on an average day

Don't take anything for granted

It's the way I watched you chew your straw

after lunch every day

or a denim jacket I loved

or an outfit I put together

that you said I looked good in

It's the hug that made me ecstatic through

the mundane hours of schoolday blues

And the look in your eyes

I thought, "Wow! Someone likes me!"

It was you

There's a happiness that just can't be contained

There's a love that's waiting for an open heart

to catch it

There's a passion for life that's just dying

to be shared

It's me!

It's the real me

It could be the perfect bunch of grapes

or an exquisite lettuce and cheese sandwich

or a pencil whose lead lays down every letter

with the same inspiration as the artist's hand

It could be a color that's brilliant and captivating

Or,

It could be you.

- July 26, 1985, A.D.

Write

Write.

Write, Write.

Succession of obsessions

and grab-bag nuances

and dreams dancing to life

from the hand -

she has such mystique.           (they say)

Love-dappled paintbrush pencil

dip, dip stroke

switch to blue, then change the hues

what a hand

what meaning has this hand?

Write.

Write, Write.

Fear makes me fill these pages

a slow to stop could be fatal

my art evades me

evolve, evolve

Who shall I write for today?

- July 6, 1985, A.D.

Heading Towards the Camel Horizon

She contemplates,

accelerates,

and diminishes.

"Hold on!

Where are you going?"

(She smiles

a sad, knowing smile.

She has always loved him.)

"I can't linger.

I must move on. . ."

"Will you ever return?"

(She turns away.  Muddled tears. . .)

/i love him.  if i'm gone long enough to remember,

then i will return.

but there's no holding on

and there's no turning back

and i am leaving now/

(She turns to him)

"Perhaps I'll come again.

But don't wait for me."

"Please. . .          Don't go."

/don't go!  don't go!. . .                                  don't go?/

(She cries to herself.)

/if i stay, i will grow to hate him

if i leave, imagine the good memories!

i am victimized by expectations

NEW LOVERS SHOULD STAY APART AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE

no matter how much i want. . ./

"No, you don't understand, dear.

I'm gone - no more goodbyes.

I'll see you on a new horizon.

I love you, so don't hurt yourself.

Take care.

We'll keep in touch."

(She turns and walks away.

Question marks have spilled out of her brain

and are beginning to clog her nose and throat.)

/why oh why oh why do i put up with this torment?

i only wanted a little taste

i didn't want the heavy load of him accepting me

and appreciating me

and - dare i even think it? - wanting to be near me

AND often

this, i could not take

so who's to blame me?

it's unnatural to be devoted to someone like me

it's idiotic

it's insane

and if the only way to stop it is to hurt him,

why i -

i -

i didn't mean to cause the pain

i know. . .

i could have stuck around and we could have gone through

hell together

and then -

then?

no, i've already been through all of this

it's settled

i've walked away and i have not left any personal belongings

in his house

i am the phosphorescent lamb,

and it's a sunset like the ads for the cigarettes i smoke

- i'm heading towards the Camel horizon. . ./

(She lifts her head up, dries her face,

and waits for the "walk" signal.)

She contemplates,

accelerates,

and diminishes.

- June 25, 1985, A.D.

Poetry: 100% Pure Beef (or Vice-Versa)

It's raining slow romantics

in a daytime nighttime anytime haze

you can rap the blues

if you wear soft shoes

because nothing beats the boredom better

than standing in the rain

and getter wetter

and you can dream of the day that you devolve

into a puddle

or a poet

or a soft, bouncy piece of rubber

as you know, we are all evolving into plastic

It's pouring slow romantics

nine days out of ten, they're out of sight

but when they kiss the sky,

they come dancing down

nice, he says,

an interesting concept

but then, it's never too late to become an obedient dog

don't you think?

- June 13, 1985, A.D.